


Money, Money, Money

by spikesgirl58



Series: ABBA/Foothills [103]
Category: The Man From U.N.C.L.E. (TV)
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-10-05
Updated: 2018-10-05
Packaged: 2019-07-25 14:03:36
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,657
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/16199000
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/spikesgirl58/pseuds/spikesgirl58
Summary: This might just be the end of Taste, but not if Napoleon has anything to say about it.





	Money, Money, Money

**Author's Note:**

  * For [jkkitty](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jkkitty/gifts).



Napoleon opened the front door to the home he shared with his partner and significant other and paused. From his spot, he could see that the dining room table had been elegantly set, its candles flickering to the draft from the door.  He shut the door quickly and quietly, as he frowned in thought.  It wasn’t their anniversary or birthday.  He couldn’t think of a single thing that they could be celebrating.  There was nothing to do, save bite the bullet.

“I’m home,” he shouted and Illya appeared a moment later, carrying a tray. It had all the makings for martinis on it and Napoleon groaned inside.  Illya rarely served hard liquor, so this had to be something very important. 

He set the tray down on the coffee table, pushing aside a stack of magazines. “I was wondering when you’d get here.”   Illya then laughed.  “You haven’t forgotten anything, Napoleon.”

“Oh, that’s a relief. It was… ah… that obvious?”

“Invisible to some, but not to me.” Illya moved into Napoleon’s arms and they shared a long kiss.  “Mmm, I don’t know what you’re serving, but between the way you smell and the way you taste, I’m ready for a treat.”

“It’s an old standby, although granted I haven’t made it in years. First, however, a drink.”

“I never say no to a drink or to my favorite Russian.”

That brought a grin to Illya’s lips. He gestured to the tray.  “Would you mind?  You make martinis better than I do.”

“You got it – should I even ask vodka or gin?”

“Only if you want me to punch you.”

Napoleon appeared to be considering it for a moment, then shook his head. “I’ll pass, for the moment.  So what’s the occasion?”

“This.” Illya held up a little red-covered book. 

Napoleon frowned at it, then dug out his glasses. It seemed familiar, but he couldn’t quite… then he remembered…

***

It was the sort of noise that made the hair on the back of Illya’s neck stand up and his blood chill, a sort of metal on metal shrieking.

Rand cried out and nearly dropped the lamb roast he was carrying. Henry covered his ears and Illya winced. 

A moment later, Matt ran out from the stock room, a clipboard under his arm “ _Che cos 'era questo?_ ”

“I don’t know what it is,” Illya snapped back. “Whatever it is, it sounds expensive.”  He set aside his spoon, wiped his hands and ran in the direction of the noise.  Then he gasped.  “Someone hit the breaker!”  Instantly the kitchen was plunged into darkness and there was screams and shouts from the dining room.  Squinting, Illya followed the 220 cable to the outlet and kicked it from the wall.  “Okay, turn it back on.”

Napoleon shieled his eyes as he entered the kitchen. “What’s going on?”

“The dish machine,” Illya said, his voice bitter as he aimed the fire extinguisher at the smoking machine. “The damned thing was on fire.”

“Do we need to evacuate?” Roxanne held her appointment book in front of her like a shield.

“No, I think we’ll be okay. The air was thick with the smell of burning insulation.  “We should open the doors, though, and turn on all the exhaust fans.”  He took a deep breath and shook his head.  “How many more reservations for tonight?”

“We’re clear except for walk ups.”

“As much as it breaks my heart, turn them away.”

“Can we afford to do that, _cara_?  Matt murmured softly.

“How many dishes do you want to wash tonight, Matt? We’ll have to do everything by hand until we get that fixed.”

 

***** 

“I’m sorry, Illya.” The repairman wiped the grease from his hands.  “This unit is done for.  It was surviving on hopes and dreams for years now.”

“More good news.” Illya pinched the bridge of his nose as the headache increased a notch.  “Thanks, Sammy.”

“I’ll keep my ears open for a used one.” The man gathered up his tools and began to store them in his tool box.  “Maybe a restaurant will go out of business.”

“Yeah,” Illya muttered. “Maybe mine.”

Illya watched the man leave with a certain sense of resignation. He turned off the overheads and headed back to the house.  There were some days when the distance between the two buildings was miles long.  Around him, the wind playfully whipped up leaves, sending them skittering across Taste’s parking lot.  A few hardy weeds poked up through cracks in the asphalt, a reminder that that, too, needed attention.

He trudged up the stairs to the front porch and sank down. Part of him wanted to sob with frustration, another part of him wanted to scream… but mostly he just felt numb.

“Hey, partner, I thought I heard you out here.” Napoleon appeared carrying two cups of coffee.  “I knew you would need one of these.”  He passed the cup over and watched Illya drain the cup.  After it became apparent that his partner wasn’t going to say anything, he asked,  “How bad is it?”

“The worst. The dish machine is completely gone.  There’s nothing left to salvage.”

“Then you’d better buy a new one.”

Illya laughed bitterly. “Yeah, right.  A new one will cost in the range of between $7,000 and $20,000.  I’ll just pop out back to my money tree and pick the money.”

“Illya--” Napoleon started, smiling.

“Napoleon, I am mortgaged up to my eyeballs. It took Matt and me everything we had to get Taste opened. 

“Illya--”

“And I can’t even add anyone on staff to do the wash up. We are cut to the quick now.”

“Illya--”

“And I can’t ask my guys to do more. They’re underpaid as it is.”

“Will you shut up?!” Napoleon stood and stared down at a flabbergasted Russian. “I’m trying to say something here.”

“All right. What do you want to say, Napoleon?”

“Illya, I have known you for decades. We have shared more than two people can share. I have the money, Illya.  Let me do this for you.”

“No. Never.  I will not borrow money from a friend.”

“A friend? I think we’re a damn sight closer than friends.”

“You know what I mean. I can’t take money from you and I have nothing to pay you back with.”

“The restaurant.”

“Taste? Never.  Matt and I have worked too hard.  It wouldn’t be fair to do this to him.”

“Why don’t you ask him, _Cara_?”  Matt approached them slowly.  “For years, I have let you speak for me.  Perhaps just this one time, you should let me talk.  After all, Taste is half mine.”

Illya rose. “Matt, I didn’t mean—“

Matt smiled tenderly at the man. “I know, _Cara_ , but you forget that I, too, have a mouth.”  He switched his attention to Napoleon.  “At what rate of interest would you loan us the money?”

“What’s the going rate?”

“ _Nessuna idea_.” Matt shrugged his shoulders and looked over at Illya.

“We’re paying eleven percent.”

“I’ll halve it.”

“This needs to be _legale_ ,” Matt said. 

“Of course. I will have my lawyer draw up the necessary papers. You can examine them and we will go from there.  However, in the meantime, order your dish machine.”

Illya sighed heavily. “And what if Taste goes belly up before we repay the loan, Matt?  What happens then?”

Matt smiled and hugged Illya. “Then we, I think, must not let that happen, eh?” he murmured into Illya’s ear.

“All right. I’m not happy about it, but—

“Being Russian, you will carry on,” Napoleon finished, offering his hand. “We will shake on it.”

 

The next day found Illya watching the installation the new dish machine. It had been lucky that they were able to find a supplier quickly and so close by, although Illya suspected Napoleon had had something to do with it.  Just seeing the machine gave Illya a much needed boost of confidence.

He glanced over as Napoleon entered. He was grinning and carrying a small box.  “It looks good.”

“For what we are paying for it, it had better do all that is promised and make us coffee to boot.”

Napoleon chuckled and held out the package to Illya. “Here.”

“What is it?” Illya opened up the box and lifted out a small red-covered book.  “And at the risk of repeating myself, what is it?”

“That, my friend, is a deposit book. At the top of the column is how much you are into me for.  Every time you make a deposit, I will subtracted it from the principle.  Pay what you can when you can.”

“Napoleon—”

“No arguing. This is how it’s going to be done.”

“I wasn’t going to. I was going to thank you.”

“That you can do tonight… properly.”

Illya smiled, the first real smile in several days. “You can depend upon me.”

****

Napoleon opened the book. The cover was frayed and even torn, then repaired in a couple of spots.  He thumbed through the pages of deposits, all carefully noted and initialed, until he got to the last page.  At the end was a zero.

“I believe we have settled our bill in full,” Illya said.

“You did that a long time ago, my love, when you put a ring on my finger.” Napoleon tossed the book and his glasses down onto the table and pulled Illya close.  “I stopped keeping track of that a long time ago.” 

“I never did. I always repay my debts.”  He kissed Napoleon, first on the lips, then traveling down his neck.  “Do you remember that night?”

Napoleon smiled at that memory. “I do.  I couldn’t walk straight for days.”

“You want to go for broke?”

“I think if we tried that now, we’d both break something. Perhaps, however, after dinner and a few drinks, I wouldn’t mind pitching a bit of woo.”

“You have a deal.” He pulled away and offered Napoleon his hand.  “Let’s shake on it.”


End file.
